Shoeless Psych
by Collegekid2006
Summary: At sometime in their lives, each and every Psych character has lost their shoes. This is the story behind each incident.
1. Chapter 1

Buzz swallowed loudly, his heart pounding through his shirt as he watched Detective Lassiter stomping around the precinct, on the warpath like Buzz had never seen him before.

"Where the hell are my sneakers?" he was snarling at anyone who happened to be in ear-shot.

Buzz gulped again, his forehead starting to break-out in a nervous sweat. He could already feel the tiny beads of perspiration dripping down his face and neck…and he knew it was only going to get worse.

He always sweat when he was guilty.

"_Someone_ stole my damn shoes out of my locker!" Lassiter bellowed, now standing in front of the door on the other side of the station, his arms firmly crossed over his chest as he glared at everyone in the building. "They're my squash sneakers! And no one is leaving this precinct until I find them!"

His foot was tapping angrily on the ground, clad in nothing but white tube socks.

Buzz groaned and closed his eyes, his life flashing before them.

_He knows…_he thought frantically, wondering vaguely how his life had come to this.

_He knows…_

_Oh, God! He knows!_

"Buzz," a gentle voice pierced his racing thoughts. "Are you okay?"

His eyes snapped open again as she shook his head emphatically at Detective O'Hara.

"No!"

"What's going on?" she laughed, shaking her head in amusement.

Clearly, she didn't fully appreciate his dire circumstances.

For a moment, Buzz didn't answer. He watched with wide eyes as Detective Lassiter ripped apart a rookie's briefcase.

"Get back here!" he snapped at the poor young man, who had been trying to sidle out of the precinct without being noticed. Detective Lassiter snatched the briefcase away from him and turned it over, spilling the contents out on the floor. He quickly sifted through the various papers furiously with expert precision, but it didn't do him any good.

His shoes weren't inside.

When the rookie was finally permitted to leave the station, Buzz realized with terror that in a few minutes he would be on the receiving end of Detective Lassiter's wrath.

"I'm dead," he groaned, wiping the back of hand across his forehead, smearing the beads of sweat into a damp patch that ran from the top of his head to his chin.

"What? Why?" Detective O'Hara asked, suddenly looking concerned.

Buzz looked both ways cautiously before answering, making sure there was absolutely no one else who could hear him.

No one else who could point the finger at him…

"Because," he whispered confidentially, his voice sounding hoarse even to him. "I stole Detective Lassiter's shoes."

Detective O'Hara's jaw nearly hit the floor and her eyes bulged out of her head at the revelation. "You _what?_" she choked, the look in her eyes a painful mixture of pride, bewilderment and sympathy. "What the heck were you _thinking_, Buzz?"

"I don't know!" he moaned, running his fingers nervously through his hair. "It was a joke! I thought it'd be funny…"

"Why on earth would you think that?"

"Well, Shawn said--"

"You listened to _Shawn?_" she snorted, raising an eyebrow at him as she clucked reprovingly. "Buzz. You know better than that."

"I know…" he sighed.

She smiled sympathetically at him, stepping in closer as she cast her still-fuming partner on the other side of the room a side-long glance. "So…" she whispered, her eyes glinting. "Where are they? The shoes, I mean. What'd you do with them?"

He hesitated, glancing around one more time before answering. "They're in my locker," he told her finally, his voice so faint she could barely make out the words.

"Your locker? He's going to search the lockers in about two minutes. You know that, right?"

"Yeah…"

"You're so dead, Buzz," she sighed, spreading her arms helplessly. "I can't help you."

"Can't you sneak them out for me?" he pleaded, looking like a puppy who knew it had piddled on the rug. "Please? He won't check your bag! You're his partner! There's a dumpster down the street…he never has to know…"

Before Detective O'Hara could answer, however, Detective Lassiter looked over at them from across the precinct. His eyes locked with Buzz's. Buzz grinned and waved, trying to look cool and unaffected, but the overly-innocent gesture just made Lassiter scowl as his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"McNab!" he shouted, pointing angrily at the officer as he stormed across the room. "What the hell do you know about my shoes?"

"Your…shoes, Sir?" Buzz stammered, his eyes wide as he took a step back. "I don't--"

Lassiter cut off his protests with one sharp look, clearly not believing a word of it. "Interrogation Room A," he ordered gruffly, motioning at the room. "Now!"

"But, Sir--"

"Move it, McNab!"

"Yes, Sir!" Buzz jumped, quickly following Detective Lassiter into the interrogation room.

Detective Lassiter shut the door behind them, coolly walking into the room.

"Take a seat, McNab," he said sternly, kicking a chair out from the table.

"Yes, Sir," Buzz cleared his throat as he quickly sat down, his knee nervously bouncing up and down as the detective circled him, his eyes burrowing into his skull like a red hot iron.

"You look nervous, McNab," Detective Lassiter continued, taking off his jacket and tossing it over the back of another chair. He put his foot up on the chair and rested his elbow on his knee as he leaned forward commandingly.

"Nervous, Sir?" Buzz squeaked, turning pale. "I'm not nervous."

"Really?" Detective Lassiter demanded, his voice growing low and dangerous. "Then why the hell were you grinning and waving at me like an idiot?"

"Uh…because I like you, Sir?" Buzz stammered, not sounding convinced himself.

"That's a damn lie!" Detective Lassiter bellowed, dropping his foot back to the floor and bringing his fist down on the table with a resounding _bang. _"You don't like me! You're guilty as hell, McNab! It's written all over your face! You stole my damn shoes! Just admit it!"

"I--"

"Do you know what the sentence for petty larceny is, McNab?" Lassiter pressed on, not waiting for Buzz's denial.

"Uh…I think it's a small fine…"

"That's not the damn point!" Lassiter shouted, his ears turning red in rage. "What the hell did you do? Sell my squash sneakers on the black market? You sick--"

"I didn't sell them, Sir!" Buzz insisted truthfully. "I swear! I--"

"Who put you up to it?" Lassiter demanded, slamming the table again, his face twisted into an angry, red pretzel. "I want names!"

Buzz opened his mouth, ready to come out with the whole story, but at that moment the interrogation room door opened again and Detective O'Hara stepped in.

In her hand was a pair of stark white sneakers.

Buzz gasped when he saw them, his lower lip starting to tremble. Detective Lassiter spun around, glaring at his partner.

"What the--?"

"Carlton," she cut him off firmly, tossing the sneakers on the table. "Are _these_ what you're looking for?"

For a long moment, Detective Lassiter didn't answer. He just stared down at the sneakers, his eyes narrowing into confused, enraged slits.

"Where the hell--?" he started finally, but once again couldn't get the thought out before his partner cut him off.

"They were on your desk, Carlton," she rolled her eyes. "You probably put them down and forgot about them."

"I did not!"  
"Then where did I get them?" she demanded, returning his challenging glare with one of her own. "Are you going to accuse me of taking them, too?"

"I don't know where you got them," he muttered bitterly, picking them up and examining them. "But they weren't on my damn desk!"

"You can't prove that," Juliet pointed out. "So, next time, check your desk before you accuse poor Buzz of something."

Detective Lassiter looked down at his shoes, then at his still-glaring partner, then over at Buzz, who looked more stunned than he did.

Finally, he scowled and stormed out of the room without another word.

When they were finally alone, Detective O'Hara turned to Buzz, smiling gently at him.

"You should keep your locker locked," she told him, heading for the door. "And for God's sake, next time Shawn tells you to pull a prank on Detective Lassiter…don't listen!"


	2. Chapter 2

"Henry!" Madeline whispered sharply, elbowing him gently in the ribs. He rolled over, pulling the pillow up over his head.

"I told you," he growled into the mattress as he dug his face deeper into it, trying to go back to sleep. "We don't have any more pickles! And I'm not going to the store at one o'clock in the morning to buy them, either! Not again!"

Madeline exhaled sharply, ripping the pillow away from his head. "No, you idiot!" she snapped, decking him with it before tossing it aside. "My water just broke."

He sat up in bed, instantly more awake than he wanted to be. "Are you okay?" he asked, putting his feet on the ice cold floor and quickly standing up. He put his hand to her bulging stomach, feeling the baby squirming inside her.

"I'm fine," she growled, batting his hand away. "I'm having a baby, not dying! Just get me to the hospital!"

"Right," he nodded, quickly grabbing the blue Hawaiian shirt he had left draped over the chair on over his white t-shirt.

"You're not wearing that!" she shouted, staring at him in horrified rage.

He blinked, buttoning it up slightly askew. He noticed when he reached the bottom that he hadn't lined it up right and quickly unbuttoned it again. "What?" he asked, trying one more time to get it right. "It's a shirt!"

"It's not a shirt!" she returned. "And it's not going to be the first thing my son sees in this world!"

"I'll be wearing a hospital--"

"Henry!"  
"Okay, okay!" he muttered, rolling his eyes as he took it off and tossed it on the floor, grabbing a less offensive shirt off the dresser.

"Don't throw it on the floor!" Madeline groaned, trying to bend down to pick it up.

She got about halfway down when she let out a gasp and stopped.

"Leave the damn shirt alone!" Henry snapped when he saw her, grabbing her arm and gently helping her stand back up. "For God's sake, stop cleaning! We have to get to the hospital."

"Right," she exhaled slowly as another contraction hit. She grabbed Henry's hand and squeezed it as the pain overcame her.

"Ow!" he grunted, feeling his bones crunch in her grip as she pulled his index finger back as far as it would go without snapping it off.

When it finally passed, she released his hand with a heavy sigh. "That's better," she murmured.

"Yeah…" Henry gasped, not having to look at his hand to know that his finger was definitely broken in at least one place. "Better…"

"Did I hurt you?" she asked, blinking in surprise.

"No," he shook his head, already mentally altering every plan he had made to include using only one hand. "I'm fine."

"Then can you get my bag?" she asked, waddling for the door. "We have to go. Now."

"Right."

He grabbed the bag with all her pre-packed clothes in it with his good hand, starting to follow her out the door.

As soon as he reached the landing downstairs, he dropped it and started to head for the kitchen.

"What are you doing?" Madeline demanded, grabbing his hand again before he could make it two steps.

"Calling Captain Connors," he answered, not pulling away. "I have to tell him I won't be on patrol tomorrow."

"You can't do that later?" Madeline shouted.

"We're going to be busy later! Besides, he wanted to know when you went into labor, anyway."

"Fine," she rolled her eyes, groaning as another contraction hit. "Call him fast!"

Her fingers squeezed his three remaining fingers. Henry closed his eyes as his bones crunched yet again.

Finally, she released her grip. As soon as she did, he bolted into the kitchen to make the phone call before another contraction hit.

By his calculations, his hand could only survive two more assaults.

Fortunately, Captain Connors answered after the first ring. Henry quickly filled him in and was back in the living room just in time for the next contraction. Her eyes were clenched shut, her hand flailing through the air for his as he re-entered.

He groaned inwardly, but allowed her fingers to curl around his two remaining fingers.

"Ow!" He grunted, his knuckles scraping against each other in his death-grip.

"Get me to the hospital!" she shouted, her grasp only tightening.

His knees started to buckle as the pain shot through his legs, but he managed to stay on his feet. "I'm trying!"

She let go as the pain temporarily subsided. "Henry!"

"I'm going!" he insisted, grabbing the overnight bag with his good hand. "I just have to find my shoes…"

He searched the floor by the door, where he had left them earlier that evening…where he'd been leaving them every night since two weeks before the due date, when the doctor said the baby could come at any moment.

"We don't have time!" she snapped, already waddling out the front door. "This baby is coming, Henry!"

"Did you move my shoes?" he asked.

"Why would I move your shoes?"

"They were right there!"

"Henry! I didn't touch your shoes! Forget the damn shoes!"

He sighed, glancing out the window.

It was still pouring down rain.

Madeline was already heading out the front door. Henry grabbed the umbrella that was propped against the wall and rushed to get ahead of her, holding it open as she waddled through. He quickly shut it behind him and ran down the front steps, landing right in an ankle-deep puddle as he guided his wife down the stairs.

By the time they made it to the car, he was soaking wet and both his socks had been sucked off his feet in one of the puddles that littered his front lawn.

He shut the car door behind Madeline and ran around to the driver's seat, not even feeling the tiny pebbles digging into the soles of his feet. He jumped in next to Madeline and turned the car on.  
"Why are you only driving with one hand?" she asked after a few minutes.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "No reason," he shrugged, shoving his mangled hand into his pocket before she could see his broken finger.

"You're not wearing any shoes!" she gasped next, as if just realizing it for the first time. "Or socks!"

"I know," he muttered, keeping his eyes on the road.

She smiled at him, gently wiping a streak of mud off his cheek. "I'm sorry, Henry."

He just shrugged, focusing on the task of driving with only one hand and bare feet.

"You're going to be a dad, Henry," she murmured, resting one hand on his knee and one on her stomach.

Her eyes started to close again as another contraction hit. Henry winced, dragging his hand out of his pocket and resting it across her lap.

"It's okay," she shook her head, pushing it away. "I did enough damage."

"I have a finger left," he shrugged, glancing down at his bare feet as she took his hand and started to squeeze again. "And I still have some toes, too."


End file.
